


Forbidden Fruits

by Dancains



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (But it's imaginary), Dream Sex, M/M, Pining, Topson, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 10:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18871678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: Distantly, he remembers that Edward was once stationed in the Mediterranean, on peace-time patrol. Perhaps he had seen fields of olive trees, their sun-kissed boughs made heavy with ripened fruit.





	Forbidden Fruits

**Author's Note:**

> For the 3-word tumblr fic prompt "Don't be ridiculous," submitted by Onstraysod :)

In Thomas’ dreams, white linen table cloth stretches out before him, endless, like some ice laden path to nowhere. The most ridiculous, extravagant dishes his imagination can conjure rise up from the table, growing like flowers or weeds: pheasant, boiled calf’s head, larded oysters, Florentine of rabbit, citrus ice, custard pies, meringues floating in crème anglaise–the list goes on and on–alongside every liquor ever known to the British empire, lined up in their sparkling cut-crystal decanters. Some more rational part of his mind knows these things would never be served on a Royal Navy ship, but they are spread out here in Terror’s wardroom nonetheless. 

He is never allowed to eat any it. These delicacies are not for him, though they are sights enough to make any man’s mouth wet with drool. He is ever so lucky, then, that his hunger is not for food. The empty feeling that burrows deep in his belly can only be satiated by another form of sustenance entirely.

Lieutenant Little, _Edward_ –his mind hisses in simmering jealously at those few who might call this man by his proper name–is strewn out upon white fabric, just waiting to be unwrapped like the metal peeling away from a rusting rations tin. Here upon the table he is eager and willing and coy, his brow knitted as always but his shapely thighs splayed apart. 

Thomas makes quick work of the man’s clothes, thankful for his years of stewardship, and finally claims the only taste he has desired upon his tongue, Edward’s rosy, cupid-bowed lips. What a centerpiece they make, framed by stubble and dark whiskers, a regal nose and eyes like two ink pots, reflecting Thomas’s stare as clearly as a looking glass. The appearance on his own face is a stranger to him, only because he has spent so many hours in practice ironing away any hint of this hunger, this animalistic urge, from his visage. 

He leans up on his elbows and Edward’s mouth comes up to chase his, one hand clutching desperately in Thomas’ hair while the other explores the bare, unblemished expanse of his back. The carnal heat growing between them as they rut against one another threatens to reach its peak–far too soon for his liking–so Thomas reluctantly leans back, kneeling between Edward’s bent legs and groping for the green-glassed bottle of olive oil that lingers next to them. 

Uncapping it and tipping out its contents, he lets the gold-colored oil drip down his chest, uncaring of how it mattes the thick trail of hair there or how it will make Edward’s flesh stick and slide greasily against his own. Distantly, he remembers that Edward was once stationed in the Mediterranean, on peace-time patrol. Perhaps he had seen fields of olive trees, their sun-kissed boughs made heavy with ripened fruit. 

Taking himself in hand, he makes sure he is coated thoroughly, before working one of Edward’s legs up and over his shoulder and lining up the blunt, blushing head of his manhood to press into him. Edward groans, loud enough to rival the firing of a six-pounder cannon, shuddering and clutching at Thomas to urge him in further. He smothers the sounds from his own mouth against Edward’s, as he begins pumping his hips in earnest, succumbing fully to the sensation like a sailor pursuing a siren’s sweet song.

In the excitement of their activities, the table creaking like ice pack beneath them, they knock over a glass of madeira, and the copper-red drips into Lieutenant Irving’s lap.

In these dreams, they are often not alone, though Thomas pays little attention to his audience while the true object of his appreciation is above or beneath him.This time, George Hodgson uses a serviette to try and sop up the mess from the other flustered lieutenant’s uniform. Perhaps it was not really wine, but holy water, from Irving’s wide-eyed, silent-lipped prayers. As usual, Mr. Helpman, the purser, simply looks confused, while Dr. McDonald seems entertained by the spectacle they paint, an amused smile half-hidden by his glass. 

Crozier is at the head of the table, as he should be, but if Thomas were to look straight up at him he would not be able to catch the captain’s eye. Instead, Crozier would be far too occupied with the man at his right, a hand on Commander Fitzjames’ thigh as they leaned in close to speak intimately with one another. 

Even while fully under Morpheus’ sway, the absurdity of the entire situation is not lost on Thomas, and his barks of laughter must ring like a pealing bell in Edward’s ear. The lieutenant’s strong hands are no doubt leaving plum-toned bruises where they tighten at Thomas’ waist, his warm body cinching even more snugly around Thomas’ prick. It is either a moment or an hour or a year until they are both convulsing in single-minded pleasure, mouths meeting messily once last time before their shared culmination.

Thomas jolts awake in his bed, into the early black hours of the morning. He is the sole occupant of his cold, curtained-off berth. Knowing he won’t be able to regain any state resembling sleep, he gets out of his bunk and begins to dutifully chip the ice away from his wash basin.

Many hours later, in the relative warmth and light of the wardroom, his eyes linger as he refreshes Lieutenant Irving’s glass, the motion so well practiced that he could do it in his sleep. What isn’t routine, is that when Thomas glances across the table at Lieutenant Little, the man is already staring at him, lips slightly parted. His jet-bead eyes go wide for the briefest of seconds before he returns his attentions to his plate, cutting into an already bite-sized morsel of veal.

Having completed his round with the Allsop’s, Thomas returns to stand sentry with his back to the wall. In an icy flash of panic, he wonders if Little could somehow discern or conceive of the dreams that still linger as tangibly as sweat upon his skin, where that very table that lay between them always plays as center stage.

_Don’t be ridiculous,_ Thomas chastises himself. By the next course, his mind is on his work again, as it should be, and the very notion is purged clean from his thoughts.


End file.
